


Love Can Kill

by PrincessAmericaChavez



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya comes back, F/M, Fix-It, Gendry is a Baratheon, Miscommunication, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, idek, if i like this i might continue with more adventures for these two??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 09:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessAmericaChavez/pseuds/PrincessAmericaChavez
Summary: “There’s a ship asking passage into our docks.”“So?” Gendry frowns, irritated. Is he supposed to oversee every single ship that comes into his land or what?“Its sails, M’Lord, they bear the Stark symbol.”“Did the Queen In The North send any ravens? Any word of someone arriving?”





	Love Can Kill

It’s been three years since The Last War —as people have taken to calling it— and for the first time, Gendry is starting to believe it  _might_ have been the last. He doesn’t, for a long time, has seen too many horrors up close to truly believe that no conflict will ever arise again, but as the long winter gives way to a new summer he allows himself to hope for peace. 

Peace, turns out, is much more complicated than war, especially for a bastard who is trying to be a lord, but Gendry’s been doing his best to learn how to act, how to lead, how to manage food, finances, disputes, agriculture, armies, navies. In all honesty, though, he mostly tries to follow his gut. He sees the common people and often remembers being in their place, hungry, exhausted, resentful. He tries to be who he wishes would’ve ruled when he was nothing but a bastard blacksmith in King’s Landing.

Today, though, he doesn’t feel like Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End. He allows himself to just be Gendry Waters once more, to walk across the gardens, let himself be bathed by the warm sun. The air smells of wet soil and flowers. As a kid, he traveled woods like this —much more dangerous woods, actually— and hated every second of it. Now, he almost misses it.

“M’lord,” a voice snaps him back to the present. 

Gendry turns around, trying to hide the annoyance that inevitably makes its way to his features. Davos keeps telling him he should work on his emotions, hiding them behind a mask, but Gendry knows himself too well to believe he’ll ever be able to wear any face other than the truth.

“What is it?” He asks the guard that stands a few feet away from him.

“There’s a ship asking passage into our docks.”

“So?” Gendry frowns, irritated. Is he supposed to oversee every single ship that comes into his land or what?

“Its sails, M’Lord, they bear the Stark symbol.”

“Did the Queen In The North send any ravens? Any word of someone arriving?”

The guard looks confused, and Gendry realizes belatedly that he’s asking the wrong person.

“I- I don’t know, M’Lord.”

“Yeah, right. Of course,” he tries to mend quickly. “Fine. Well, the North has always been our ally. Whoever Queen Sansa has sent, will be welcome in Storm’s End. Let them through and send them to my main hall. Please.”

It’s the last word that catches the guard, apparently. The man blinks, confused, but nods and rushes away. Gendry watches him disappear between the trees and sighs. He raises his head, stares at the blue skies through the golden leaves that have bravely clung to the trees through the winter. It was such a beautiful day, and now he has to go and do stupid official things again. Seven hells.

* * *

 

"Lady Stark," are the first words that leave his lips after a silence that seems to last an eternity.

The wrong words, he knows, he's known for years that those words had been wrong, but she smiles.

Arya Stark looks almost exactly the way he remembers her. Almost. She bares light leather armor, her hair wrapped behind her head in a tidy bun, her skin is darker, kissed by the sun, and her face older. She carries herself with the same pride she did back in Winterfell, stance firm and chin held high, but he can tell something's changed. She looks almost  _relaxed,_ in a way she never was, not even when they were children. She looks similar to what he remembers. She looks entirely different. And yet, when she smiles, he knows her perfectly.

"No one's called me that in a very long time, M'Lord," she replies, lightly. 

It's his turn to make a sour face. He's been getting used to the title lately, but to hear it coming from Arya Stark's lips is off-putting. It's  _wrong._ Judging by the mischievous glint in her eyes, he assumes that's what she was aiming for. That little shit.

"Oh?" He says with a smirk. "You're right. I should be calling you by your true title, Princess Arya."

That works. Gendry sees her mask break a little, the girl he once knew peaks behind the grown woman as her nose scrunches with disgust.

"I'm not a Princess."

"You're the sister of the King of the Six Kingdoms  _and_ of the Queen In The North," Gendry retorts. "That's twice a princess you are."

Gendry can see her annoyance rise. He smiles. He also reminds himself that she could kill him right now and here if she wanted to. Instead, after a second, her shoulders drop and her face fills with something that he almost wants to call fondness.

"It's good to see you," she says softly. 

"You too," his voice is almost a whisper as he stands up and crosses the hall towards her.

He stops himself short from touching her. More than anything, Gendry wishes to hold her in his arms —he thought he'd never see her again— but the ghost of the closed she-wolf crosses her features as he approaches, he sees her tense and decides against risking it. He rushed once. If he does again, she might fuck off elsewhere without a warning once more.

"What are you doing here?" He asks. "Where have you been?"

"Traveling," Arya shrugs. "I've been west."

"West? West of what?"

"Of everything," she replies as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. Her left eyebrow arches slightly.

Gendry decides not to give her the satisfaction of asking.

"So, you're back now."

"No," she answers quickly, then seems to correct herself. "Yes, for now. I haven't decided yet. I just figured it was time to come home."

Gendry can't quite read the expression that crosses her face. He can barely think. Those big brown eyes pierce through him and he would swear that she's holding her breath.

"So... you're going back to Winterfell?" 

Wrong. Wrong thing to say. He can tell immediately by the way her face changes, closes off again. She takes a step away from him.

"Yes, Winterfell," Arya replies, dryly.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

"Don't go yet," he says quickly, his voice almost pleading but Gods be damned if he doesn't wish to beg.

Something sparks in Arya's eyes once more.

"Stay here," he says quickly. "You- You must be tired. And your men! Your men too! Stay here. You're welcome at Storm's End for as long as you wish. We'll- We'll have a feast tonight, for your men, and when you're ready you can ride North. Or sail North. Whatever."

When the rush of words ends, he has the horrifying sensation of having been here before, words and offers pouring out of his mouth. He remembers distinctly the sting of rejection, the open wound that still hasn't learned how to heal. He also remembers the look she's giving him, a look that he was dumb enough to confuse with love. So Gendry braces himself for what is to come.

"Okay."

Arya's reply is quiet and yet it seems to ring through the empty hall like a bell. Gendry's eyebrows arch.

"Yes?"

"Yes," she repeats, firmly. "You are right, my people need rest after the long journey."

"I will have someone see they are properly tended to," he nods... because he imagines he is supposed to do that. Sansa Stark did it for them when they arrived North. He'd be lying if he said he hasn't been trying to emulate her whenever a complicated situation presents itself.

"Very well," Arya nods, "then I will see you tonight, My Lord."

"Yes, your highness."

Rolling her eyes, Arya gives him a gentle shove and turns to walk away. That first contact alone sends a shock through Gendry's whole body, he forgets how to breathe.

All alone, the Lord of Storm's End stands in his grand hall trying to make himself believe that Arya Stark is back in his life.

* * *

 His eyes never leave her. How could they? Gendry tries to blame it on her clothes, unusually colorful for a Stark's, blue and green light fabric that hugs the curve of her hips and flows with her movements. She's wearing pants, of course, but there's nothing masculine in the confection of her costume, as beautiful as any grown he's seen. Her bare shoulders are even darker than the rest of her skin and sparkled by freckles. Her hair is down, longer than he's ever seen it, it frames her face like a dark veil, unruly curls he never knew she had falling down her back like ocean waves. She moves through the hall with ease, talks to everyone. The men and women that arrived with her all look well traveled and experienced —fierce like the Northerners, he thinks—, and she mixes with them with surprising ease. There's a rank there, he can tell, but she's one of the crew. He's never seen her so at ease before.

A pang of jealousy rushes through him as he sees these people share her bread and drink with her, as they make her smile. He thinks back to the days they spent traveling together, their little group of friends, of family, trusting each other like that.

"You're brooding," she says, suddenly, sneaking up on him. He nearly drops his ale. "Never took you for the brooding lord kind."

"I'm not," he complains. "Just thinking, that's it."

"About what?" She sits next to him.

Great. Now he has her undivided attention and can't even come up with a proper answer.

"Don't know. These. You. Your men."

"And women," she adds.

"And women," he nods. "They seem like good people."

"They are. We've been far together, further west than anyone else in this continent, I believe."

That makes him turn around to face her.

"What did you find?"

"The world," Arya Stark smiles and time retreats between them like they are children again talking about adventures they wished to have one day. "There's so much more than we ever dreamed. I have been tracking it all down, making a new map, writing it down."

A breathy laugh scapes him.

"Would you show me?"

Arya stands up abruptly and, again, Gendry wants to kick himself for speaking too quickly. Except, she turns over her shoulder and arches an eyebrow.

"Well, are you coming, or what?"

"Where?" He asks.  _Yes,_ he wants to say, no matter her answer.

"My ship, stupid. I've got the maps there."

* * *

Arya's quarters are bigger than he imagined. The walls are covered with beautiful fabrics, maps, and drawings. Over a table by the window, a big map is spread out, bigger than any he's ever seen, held down by a single candle. Gendry tries to keep his eyes off the bed, big and soft. He fights himself as his mind wonders how many men have slept in it. Instead, he leans over the table as his eyes trail the carefully drown cartography.

"Here," Arya hands him a glass.

The first sip shocks Gendry. The liquor is like nothing he's ever tried before, thick and sweet _._

"This is very good," he says, taking a second taste.

"Careful, don't let it fool you. It's stronger than it seems, behind all that sweetness."

"I can handle it."

Half a smile tugs at her lips as her eyes deviate towards the map.

Yes, he's pretty sure neither of them was talking about the drink.

"So," he prompts, "tell me about it."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Arya's smile grows. She tells him about the new lands she found, humid and hot and filled with vegetation. She talks about mountains so high she couldn't see where they ended, about lands so dry not a single drop of water could be found, about animals with long necks, about colorful birds with feathers worth more than diamonds, about free people, about strange civilizations, about other kings and wars, about islands with sand like flour, about food that tastes like fire... he listens to her enraptured, sipping drink after drink.

The hours pass like a dream. He can feel a pleasant fussiness in his head, the world feels warm and filled with possibilities as he listens to Arya Stark narrate it. He's not sure how it happens, but they start giggling like kids at something and suddenly neither of them can stop. His stomach hurts, he can't breathe and it is  _wonderful._

"Stupid bull," she chuckles, shoving his shoulder.

Gendry catches her wrist. Arya could probably free herself if she wanted to, she doesn't. Instead, still smiling, she looks at him. His free hand comes up to brush a dark lock off her face, the tips of his fingers barely touch her cheek. 

He can't breathe.

"Gendry-"

Before she can speak and break the spell, his mouth is on hers. Arya's lips reply to his after a second, just as hungry. His hands explore her familiar body over the lavish fabrics, hers are already working on the laces of his coat. A moan escapes her and the sound is enough to erase any trace of doubt inside him.

The world fades away, the past disappears, the titles turn to ashes, all that matters is tonight as Gendry Baratheon and Arya Stark rediscover each other.

* * *

 

Hours later, as dawn breaks across the sea, Arya sleeps by his side. Her dark hair spreads across the feather pillow, it smells of rich oils and perfumes. Her face is unusually peaceful, the corners of her lips curve upwards slightly, her breathing follows a gentle rhythm.

And yet, sleep evades Gendry. He stares at the ceiling with a frown. There were no promises made, no future, no assurances. He knows, deep down, she will leave again.

 _Seven hells._ He isn't sure he can survive that pain a second time.


End file.
